Sammy in the Window
by Phx
Summary: A bad back becomes a pain in the butt for the Winchesters when they attempt to finish a hunt... A round robin based on the image of Sam on a window ledge.


Sammy in the Window

_**To quote Tyranusfan, as he has summed it up very nicely:**_

"_**The last few weeks, while in between writing other stories, five of us—geminigrl11, K Hanna, Phx, Tyranusfan and Yuma--got together and started an email round robin. We've done four, this is the third one. The inspiration was the idea of Sam on a window ledge. This is the SPN story we spun from that idea."**_

_**The second fic – Smiling all the Way – has already been posted by Tyranusfan, so if you haven't taken a look at it, give it a shot. It's pretty funny. And the other two RR's will be posted by geminigirl and Yum.**_

_**Sammy in the Window**_

**Gem**

By the second day, Dean had had enough. As usual, though, Sam wasn't cooperating.

"It's fine. I don't need a doctor."

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to argue, but Sam was a stubborn bastard—_wonder where he got that from?_—and show was definitely more effective than tell under these circumstances.

"Catch these, would you?" Dean barely waited for Sam to look up before lobbing over a set of car keys. He almost—_almost_—felt guilty when Sam instinctively grabbed for them and then curled up, barely muting a yelp of pain. The nearly gray tinge to his skin when he finally glared up at Dean tipped the scales even further toward sympathy. But at least the point had been made.

"So, hospital?" Dean asked cheerfully, already slinging an arm around Sam's waist and gently tugging him upright.

Sam's huff was full of annoyance, but there was relief in it, too.

--

Turned out, there was a free clinic the next town over, which was better than a hospital on all counts except that it was incredibly crowded. Dean stayed in the waiting room rather than dropping Sam off, not knowing how long his brother might be stuck there.

Sam fidgeted uncomfortably every few minutes, lines deepening around his mouth and eyes as the day drew on. He wasn't much for conversation, responses limited to a few terse nods that seemed to grow more short-tempered the longer he waited. Dean turned his attention, instead, to worn copies of the week's newspapers, the swap meet ad, even a Highlights magazine and a few fliers that gave him more information on venereal disease than he'd ever realized he never wanted to know.

Eventually, they took Sam back. He emerged a short time later, still walking slow and shuffling like an old man, but with a little more color in his cheeks. He had a sheet of paper and a brown paper sack crumpled in one hand, the other wrapped tight and low around his back.

"What's the verdict?" Dean gave a nod to the paper.

"Strained some ligaments." Sam's voice was a little less raw then it had been earlier, when it had seemed like just talking caused more pain. "They gave me a shot. And whatever these are." He clutched the sack a little closer.

"And told you not to move for a while, right?" Sam didn't answer, but his eyes slid away from Dean's, looking put out…and embarrassed. Which was odd, considering it wasn't the first time one of them had been laid up—and it wasn't exactly news that sitting in the car for more than five minutes or so had Sam breathing like a mother in labor. "What?"

Sam just shook his head, heading for the door.

Dean shrugged, deciding not to press it. For the moment, it was enough to get his literally bent-out-of-shape little brother back to the motel, fully prepared to deal with the boredom of being stuck with nothing to do for the next few days while Sam's back recovered.

**K Hanna**

First order of business was easy: get Sam settled and comfortable.

Not that this would have normally been easy, because Sam hadn't been anywhere in the vicinity of comfortable for two days now. But whatever they had shot him up with seemed to slowly take effect on their creeping drive back to the motel, and by the time Dean steered his brother inside, Sam was more limp noodle than the stiff board he'd been lately. Absence of pain apparently brought the fatigue of two sleepless nights crashing down on the kid, too, and it was with amusement Dean got the six-four frame stretched out prone on the bed. Sam's feet only hung off the end from the ankles on.

Sam didn't care. He was out like a light.

It made it a whole lot easier to do what Dean had wanted to do when Sam had first limped back from the croucher hunt. He dug one of the larger sized chemical heat packs out of their kit, activated it, and settled it over Sam's lower back. Sam didn't even flinch, just murmured something that probably would have been hilarious if Dean would've been able to understand it, and settled back into sleep. Dean smiled anyway, giving the tousled hair a ruffle, then turned away.

His eyes fell on the bag he'd tossed onto his bed on the way in. Crumpled almost into a ball in Sam's pained grip, it took a effort to open, and Dean finally gave up and tore the bottom. A bottle of prescription pills rolled out. He picked it up, scanning the label with a practiced eye. The name was vaguely familiar, enough to recognize as a strong painkiller, not enough that he could remember either of them getting it before, but assuming Sam's shot didn't have a long shelf-life, it would come in handy. Dean read the directions—take with food, don't operate an Impala or shoot guns while under the influence, may cause sleep and long hours of boredom for patient big brothers—then set it on the nightstand. Drowsy was no problem. Food was.

Well, maybe pills first, food after wouldn't hurt. In fact, Sam pretty much didn't wake at all, eyes shut as he swallowed the pills Dean forced on him, drank a few sips of water, then subsided with a sleepy mumble, once more totally out. Pursing his lips, Dean considered his unconscious little brother, finally deciding he could be left for a half-hour during which he most likely wouldn't even waken. Dean scrawled a note for good measure, propping it against the bottle of pills, and ducked outside for food.

Since they were likely to be there a while, a trip to the nearest grocery store preceded the usual fast food pit stop. Dean soon returned with Chinese food in one hand, a bag of bread, PB & J, chips, soup, and mac & cheese in the other. They already had the beer and M&Ms.

Sam looked exactly like Dean had left him. Dean shook his head, then bent down to shake one limp shoulder.

"Mmm?"

"Rise and...well, eat, bro. I think shining's a little too much to ask."

Sam blinked at him in utter confusion.

"Food," Dean repeated clearly and succinctly, and saw a glimmer of a light go on.

It was enough that Sam didn't flop over into his orange chicken, but Dean kinda doubted he was aware of what he was eating, or possibly even that he was eating at all. Whatever. Little brother fed, Dean slid him back onto his stomach without only a "Deefnhmm" from Sam, which Dean took to be thank you and goodnight.

And to think he'd missed real conversations while hunting alone.

Dean settled on his own bed, pillow at his back, remote in hand, giving Sam a final amused and, okay, maybe tiny bit affectionate look before clicking the TV on and digging into the M&Ms. "Looks like just you and me, dude," he said to the set, and started flicking through channels.

He was halfway through a marathon of Kurosawa movies—_Ran_ was a pretty awesome flick he'd never admit knowing to Sam—when his cell phone rang.

**Tyranusfan**

Sam's mood hadn't improved since the doctor—-a rather attractive brunette, he had to admit—-had given him the shot. He was in three kinds of agony, and her instructions to lie down and rest for a few days only discouraged him more.

Dean was notoriously annoying when bored, and being trapped in a small motel room for days on end with a twitchy older brother… Well, Sam had done that before, and he wasn't in the mood to do it again anytime soon.

He had to admit, his worsening mood probably had a lot to do with the pain, and neither the pretty doctor nor Dean deserved the gruff responses he'd growled out at the clinic.

In order to maintain the peace, Sam decided that until the painkillers kicked in, he would keep his mouth shut. Not that Dean wouldn't understand; far from it. Dean was also known to let pain foul his mood. Dad was the same way. It was hereditary. Still, Sam had a habit of saying things he later regretted in that state, so silence was the wisest course of action.

So, the trip from the clinic to the motel went quietly, for Sam. Dean, on the other hand, was prattling on endlessly, trying to make Sam laugh. He still didn't trust his mouth not to say something mean or stupid, so Sam just stared out the window. Had his back allowed it, he might have smiled, though. His brother always took care of him like that. Sam would have to thank him for his efforts once he was over his injury.

_Maybe I'll short-sheet his bed, or hide his favorite shirt…_

Sam contemplated all the devious ways one Winchester could show his affection to another, staring blindly at the scenery rushing by the window. As the ride continued, the dull fire in his back slowly receded, bunched muscles relaxing one at a time.

His eyes were drifting lazily across the dashboard before Sam realized that the drug was kicking in. The world took on a hazy appearance, and Dean's voice had slowed down noticeably. Dean sounded like an old record at the wrong speed. Sam couldn't feel the strain in his back anymore…or his back at all for that matter.

_What did they give me again?_

Sam tried to hold up the papers the doctor had given him, but as he watched, his arm seemed to rise up, then droop weakly across the seat, hand dropping open. It was like his mind was disconnected from his body. Dean noticed and reached down, plucking the paper from Sam's lax grip.

"Whhhaaattt iiisss thhhiiisss, Sssaaammmyyy?"

Sam frowned at his brother. _Why is he talking like that? He sounds like that guy in that movie…um…the one with…yeah…yeah, that movie…he sounds just like him…_

Sam struggled to stay focused and listen to Dean, but the effort of keeping his head upright was distracting him, so he let it roll back against the seat. Dean was still talking like that guy in that movie, and it was really funny. Sam just listened, wanting to smile, but unable to for some reason. It took too much energy, especially when it was taking everything he had to keep his eyes open.

God, he was tired. _When was the last time I slept?_

The door suddenly opened behind him, and Sam nearly fell out of the car. He rolled his head from the driver's seat, to Dean's looming face, back to the empty driver's seat. How had Dean moved so fast?

_Teleportation._ Of course! That made perfect sense. Dean had been holding out on him. The jerk. Sam was definitely gonna short, uh—- Short…some—- He was gonna do something to Dean's bed, that was for sure.

Sam registered something soft hitting him in the face…or maybe he was hitting something soft _with_ his face… Whatever. He yawned widely, and finally let his eyes drift shut.

Something heavy landed on his lower back, and Sam tried to look back and identify it, but that took too much effort, so he complained to Dean about it and then settled back into the softness.

--

The fire was warm and romantic. Sarah Blake was snuggling up against Sam, whispering things into his ear. Explicit things. Unladylike things. Really, really _hot_ things…

Something squeezed his shoulder. Sam ignored it, intent on deciphering exactly what Sarah had said about the sponge and what she wanted to do with it. That was much more important than whatever was—

Squeezing his shoulder again, and shaking him. Dammit. He begged Sarah to wait just a moment, then lifted his head to find out what was happening.

He opened his eyes only to find Dean leaning over him again, like in the car earlier. _Fucking teleporters…_

Dean looked insistent about something. Probably teleportation related, which Sam didn't really care about since he couldn't do it…and Sarah wasn't going to wait forever behind him…but still, Dean looked like he needed something, so Sam frowned at him.

"Mmm?"

"Rise out of the well at Heathrow, I think fine dining's a little touchy task," Dean said.

Sam blinked. That made no sense at all. _What the hell—?_

Dean frowned back at him, then cleared his throat. "Lewd."

Lewd? Had Dean heard what Sarah—-? Wait, Dean's mouth hadn't moved right…looked like he'd made an F—-

Oh, _food!_

Sam closed his eyes briefly to quell the dizziness as Dean pulled him upright. When he opened them again, a resplendent feast was laid out before him. Sarah sat on his right, splitting her time between smiling at him and playing with their four children. Dean sat on the other side of the table, playfully feeding Cassie pieces of fruit and singing "Enter Sandman" at the top of his lungs. Daniel Blake, Sarah's anhedonic father, glared at Dean from the TV screen, obviously unimpressed with the elder Winchester's singing ability.

Thank God he's mad at Dean and not me…

Mr. Blake had never forgiven them for breaking into his art gallery that night and burning all the mini quiche. Sam breathed easier when Missouri walked over and changed the channel to the twenty-four-hour mini-cam feed.

At least they'd be able to keep an eye on Michael now so that the shtriga couldn't get him.

Sam turned when a pair of hands grasped his shoulders, expecting to see Sarah. Instead, he saw Dean, who was muttering something Sam couldn't make out. His big brother was gnawing on a huge piece of ham. Sam grimaced. Dean was always talking with his mouth full.

"Dean, finish your ham!"

Dean pushed him down—-jerk—-but fortunately, he landed on the same softness he'd felt earlier. He was so sleepy… _Come back to bed, Sarah…_

Sam was almost asleep when someone started shoveling gravel. Annoyed, Sam opened his eyes as wide as he could. He saw a small sliver of the darkened room. Dean was propped up, pointing something at something Sam couldn't see. A strobe light lit the room. Dean spoke softly, but Sam could still hear him, even over the gravel.

"Look Sly, just shoot Amy, dude."

He frowned. Who the heck was Sly? Or Amy, for that matter. There were a bunch of odd voices in the room, too. Was Dean throwing a party?

_Probably his other teleporting friends_. Jerk. Sam never got invited to the cool parties. He opened his mouth to say so when the alarm clock went off.

Then stopped.

Then went off again.

Then stopped.

_Dean must be hitting the snooze button…_

"Jello?"

_Jello?_ Was Dean eating again? Sam didn't doubt it. Dean was like a garbage disposal. He giggled at that.

He listened to Dean speaking. Something about a lobby, a croucher—-which was one of those demons that hid in doorways, he understood that much—-and Sam.

Was Dean talking to someone in the lobby about him? Sam wondered why. His musings were interrupted when something grabbed his shoulder again. He sensed Dean nearby, but couldn't raise his eyes enough to see. Dean's voice filled his ear.

"Sorry to break your bow…but eyes are half too gross."

Sam frowned, rolling the words over in his wandering mind.

_Huh?_

**Phx**

Dean had never heard of crouchers working in pairs before, but apparently this Akkadian demon's habits weren't as well documented as they had originally thought. So it was an unhappy older Winchester that was now left to finish the hunt...by himself. Not that that was the part Dean minded—he was a big boy after all—but he hated leaving his drugged-to-the-gills brother alone in the motel room. However, they didn't have the luxury of waiting a couple of days until Sam could move without strong narcotics or turning all shades of gray with each deep breath. And the fact that it was a continuation of the hunt that made those drugs necessary in the first place… well, no, Dean was not a happy hunter at all.

Ending Bobby's call, Dean stood next to his brother's bed and stared down at his slumbering sibling for a moment, reluctant to wake him. Sam was lying on his stomach with his head turned toward Dean, with a string of drool between his bottom lip and the pillow, and a slightly congested snore that had the older man smiling fondly. _Fearless hunter, my ass…_

Dean gently shook Sam's shoulder. "Sorry to wake you, bro, but I have to go." Sam roused enough to give him a dilated, semi-aware glare. His coherency left much to be desired, but according to Bobby, the second croucher was seriously pissed and had already provoked two more murders in the last couple of days, so Dean didn't exactly have time to chat. The dang nuisances loved to hide in doorways and cause major dissension, to the point of violence. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

When Sam continued to stare at him like he was speaking a foreign language, Dean rolled his eyes, scribbled a note, and shoved it into one of his brother's hands. Maybe the written word might work better.

"Damn croucher has a buddy." Dean hastily armed himself with a shit-load of salt and a machete. He'd use the salt to trap the demon and the big-assed blade to hack it into itty bitty pieces. God, he loved his job. Behind him, he heard Sam mutter something unintelligible. "This one's hanging out in the lobby of the local Rod and Gun Club," he continued as he grabbed his car keys. "Not bad enough the things pissing people off… but pissing off _armed_ people? Man, that just really sucks. "

Hearing nothing else from the bed behind him, Dean glanced back and then rolled his eyes. Sam was gone again. Oh well, at least he was still holding the note.

Crossing the distance between them, Dean checked the heat pack still snuggled against his brother's back and then re-covered him, his fingers ghosting across Sam's shoulder as he whispered, "Back soon, bro," and left the room.

--

An hour later, as Dean dived into a small closet and slammed the door behind him, he hoped Sam wasn't going to hold him to that.

Crouching down and holding the machete in front of him like a shield, Dean tried to make himself as small as possible as the door above him was riddled with bullets. Breathing heavily, he cursed. This was _not_ going according to plan.

He'd managed to trap the croucher and was just closing in for the kill when one of the riled-up club members—armed, of course—had blundered through the salt circle, then got really pissed off at _Dean_. Now said member, thankfully the only person left in the place, had him pinned under fire as the demon kept on sending out bad vibes.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

With no other choice as bullets continued to shred the door, Dean jerked out his cell phone and hoped the drugs had worn off enough for his brother to get mobile. Sam was in no shape to take on either the croucher or the gun-wielding A-hole, but as a distraction? Dean couldn't think of anyone better.

**Gem**

The alarm clock went off again. And stopped and went off, seeming to vibrate. Sam swung for it, eyes still closed, arms feeling like lead weights. He felt a small curl of satisfaction when his fingers skated over the top of it, fumbling for the long flat button that would turn it _off_.

Instead, though, the whole thing slipped away and tumbled out of reach. He heard a muffled thump…and then it was ringing again.

_Wait, ringing?_

He opened his eyes—or tried to, at least. It took a little more concentration than it usually did, and once he was semi-focused in a motel room that didn't look remotely familiar, he finally realized it wasn't the alarm clock but the phone that was making noise.

He should probably answer it.

Of course, that meant he actually had to find the phone.

He pushed himself upright, surprised and a little chagrined at the whimper he made when his body wanted to keep on going, tilting over to the other side. He grabbed at the mattress, caught a lump of tangled bedclothes, and used it to help him find his balance. The room did a lazy twirl around him and he blinked, trying to get it to stop.

"Dean?"

Another thing that was much harder to do than it seemed like it should: talking. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and rather than his brother's name, the word his lips formed sounded like the mating call of some Discovery channel animal only seen in the wilds of Africa.

_Africa. Always wanted to go there. There're monkeys there. Monkeys are good._

Damn it, the phone was ringing again. Seemed like there was something he was supposed to do with it…something…

Oh, yeah. He picked it up, fingers feeling thick as balloons. It took him two tries to get the little flip part open. "'Loooo?"

"-am? You an ape? I need a belt."

_Am I an ape? Huh. Guess Dean's thinking about monkeys, too. But wait, a monkey's not an ape… _"Y'need a wha?"

"Sam! Late to mention! I need your elf!"

"Y'need my elf?" Sam was beyond confused. Why would Dean need an elf? And why did he think Sam had one? This whole conversation felt like a bad dream…and his body wanted to tip over again. He'd play games with Dean later. He needed to sleep. "Think I need to lay down a minute. C'n you call back?"

Silence.

"'Loooo?"

"Sammy." Dean's voice was louder this time. But slower, too, which was good. Dean talked too fast sometimes, all his words racing around, chasing each other, like those cars on ESPN that sounded like mosquitoes. Sam had no idea why anyone would want to drive a giant mosquito, but then, he'd never really driven anything other than the Impala, so maybe it was—

"I. Need. Your. Help."

Oh. "Oh. Why din't you say so?"

Sam heard a sigh on the other end of the phone. He closed his eyes, had just started to let himself sink backwards. Until Dean asked him to listen.

So he did.

**K Hanna**

It was not turning out to be Ralph's kind of day. First that woman in the ridiculous hat had stiffed him his fare while he was busy looking for the change she'd asked for, and then he was pretty sure that kid traveling with his parents had left sticky fingerprints all over the back window. That was gonna be fun to clean. Was it too much to ask for a simple, problem-free fare?

From the half-dressed, disheveled giant waving frantically at him from the motel parking lot, Ralph guessed so.

For a second, he considered just driving by. Pretending he didn't see the guy, which, yeah, yeah, didn't make a lot of sense considering Goliath was only in boxers and a t-shirt, hair sticking up like Ralphie Junior's when he first got up in the morning, and waving his arms and jumping up and down much like Ralphie did, too. It just looked cuter and a lot less nutso on a three-year-old.

But the guy did kinda remind him of Ralphie, down to the way his eyes got all gooey as soon as they met Ralph's, and he realized with a sigh that he'd already made his decision. The cab turned and pulled up to the edge of the motel lot.

Goliath fumbled with the door for so long, Ralph thought he'd have to get out and help him, but then the flushed, not at all creepy guy was sliding into the seat.

"IneedagettaDean."

Ralph raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"

In answer, the guy stuck a hand out toward him. Ralph almost recoiled, until he realized there was a cell phone wrapped in the long fingers. Making a face, he gingerly pulled it free and held it up to his ear. "Hello?"

It sounded like the guy on the line had already been talking, but he paused at Ralph's question. _"Who's this?"_

"Oh, no, pal," Ralph shook his head, "your buddy gets in the back and gives me the phone, you tell me who you are first."

_"This a cab? Sam got a cab?"_

Ralph eyed the flushed cheeks and eyes that looked a little too wide—drugs?—behind him, the way the guy—and really, he actually was kind of a kid—was looking at him like Ralph was Santa Claus, and he shook his head again. "If you mean Paul Bunyan in underwear, then yeah, he's in the back of my cab. Now, you wanna tell me what's going on and why your buddy looks like he couldn't spell his own name right now?" Goliath-Sam gave him a smile, and Ralph uneasily half-smiled back. Seriously, one solid, simple fare. Was that so much to ask?

There was some weird crash in the background, and a pause, then the voice came back, a little more rushed. _"That's my brother Sam. He's okay, he, uh... He's okay, he just came back kinda messed up from...Iraq, you know? On some pretty good meds and everything, but he's cool. I can't come get him now, though—can you bring him here?"_

Iraq? Ralph looked again at the kid. Hair wasn't exactly regulation, but something about the way he held himself, the scar on his arm his undershirt didn't hide—yeah, okay, that made sense. Ralph softened. "Hey, sure. Owe him that much, huh?"

_"I can pay you when—"_

"Nah, don't worry about it, it'll be on me. Don't often get a chance to help out our boys in uniform. What branch of service?"

Another crash. The guy on the phone sounded kinda breathless. _"Oh, uh. Marines. Corporal."_

"Nice." Ralph already was pulling out. "So, you wanna tell me where we're going?"

The address wasn't far, and Sam's brother sounded distracted, so Ralph soon gave the phone back to Sam. He immediately curled up in the back corner with it, talking in whispers. Ralph noticed he was holding a piece of crumpled paper in his hand, too.

A minute later, the phone was sagging, and the kid was blinking sleepily. Probably those meds. Crying shame. "Hey," Ralph said.

Large brown eyes blinked up at him. Yeah, definitely like Ralphie.

"So, that's your brother, huh? You gonna go see him?"

Goliath blinked at him. "Dean's m'brother."

Ralph snorted. "Dean, huh? Yeah, I kinda picked up on that. Takes care of ya, huh? That's good—brothers are good for that. Me and the missus, we're thinking about having another one for our kid."

Goliath looked at him another moment. "Need help. He's m'brother."

"Yeah, we'll be there soon and he'll help, okay? Just hang in there, kid."

Another blink. "S'no monkeys."

Ralph nodded slowly. "Right. Sure." Crying shame, young kid like this so messed up. Combat did that to ya. Uncle Mac had never been the same after 'Nam. "Almost there, Sammy."

The kid mumbled something Ralph didn't catch, but then they were turning into the parking lot. Kind of a weird place to meet, some kind of gun club or something. Maybe the brother was in the service, too? Probably let him out to take care of his screwed-up sib. They really owed kids like this more. A free cab ride didn't seem like a whole lot, considering.

He nodded at Sam. "We're here."

Goliath's eyes were even bigger. "Dean?" He seemed to be asking the building.

"Inside, I guess," Ralph said. "You want me to go with you?"

But Sam was already getting out of the car and loping toward the door. Didn't even have shoes on, but guess he didn't care. Well, least he had his brother, right?

Ralph watched until he was inside, then slowly pulled the cab away. Forget about getting a good fare. He suddenly wanted badly to go home and see Margo and Ralphie.

**Tyranusfan**

There was a pause in the gunfire, which might have been a good sign, but Dean knew it was only because the pissed-off A-hole outside was reloading. That was the third clip from the man's .45 that had been emptied, and there was no indication that he was finished.

Where the hell was he getting his ammo?

Dean shrugged off the question as the fire resumed, and crouched lower in the closet. The man outside was furious—thanks to the damned croucher—but fortunately he was so furious that he wasn't really thinking. The club member had made no attempt to move closer to the closet, or lower his fire toward the floor, where Dean was ducking.

The croucher demon had made the man blind with anger, almost literally. The guy was just emptying clips into the closed door without even thinking about it. Dean hoped that was going to give Sam the advantage when he got there. If the man was focused on Dean in the closet, then Sam would be relatively safe from attack.

Dean hoped, anyway. Sam was in no condition to jump into the fray here, and if he got hurt because Dean had summoned him—

He shut out the thought. Sam would be fine. He just needed to show up and give Dean a distraction so that he could subdue the gunman and kill the still-trapped demon. _Easy, right?_

The gunfire stopped again, right at fifteen rounds like before. At least it was predictable. As quiet descended on the room once more, Dean considered his options. He was on the second floor of the clubhouse, there were two entrances to the room, both leading out to a large, long hallway, which in turn led to stairs and an elevator.

One of the doors was lined with salt. Sam would have to avoid that one.

Not that Sam could do any damage in the condition he was in, no matter how angry the croucher might make him.

The gun started firing again. Dean sighed. _A gun club, of all places._

His phone rang, and Dean fished it out, trying to stay low. Whole slats of wood had been blown out of the door. Much more of this, and the door was simply disintegrate above him. He answered his phone, squeezing closer to the wall.

"Yeah, Sam?"

_"D'n? M'here."_

Christ, the kid sounded asleep on his feet. He remembered that the cabbie had said he was still in his underclothes. Sam wasn't going to be able to do much. Of course, Dean didn't need much.

"Sam? I'm upstairs in the meeting hall, in a closet, second floor," Dean began slowly, remembering that Sam was having trouble understanding…well, English. "There's one guy, I think he's behind a table. Do you understand?"

_"Upstairs, sec'nd floor, on'guy…alone?"_ Sam asked, startling Dean by sounding all business, despite his inability to form complete words. He wasn't quite sure who Sam was asking about being alone, but since they both were, he answered simply.

"Yeah, alone."

_"Sure there s'no monkeys?"_

Dean blinked. _What the—-?_ "No. No…monkeys."

_"Apes?"_

_Oh, for God's sake…_ "No, no apes. Sam, are you sure you can do this?"

Sam snorted, sounding indignant. _"M'brother!"_

As if that explained everything. Dean shrugged to himself. "Uh, okay. Just come on up, I'll keep his attention on me. Okay? Don't get shot, just make a lot of noise!"

_"Okie dokie!"_ Sam ended the call. Dean frowned. He wasn't telling Bobby about this. Okay, distract the guy until Sam came up. Easy. He had never been so glad that he didn't go anywhere anymore without his favorite gun.

The man stopped to reload again, and Dean waited for him to resume fire before he drew his own Glock and rested the muzzle against the door, poking just out a broken slat. He fired four times straight up. The gunfire from outside paused as the enraged man no doubt took cover. A few seconds went by before more bullets ripped into the small closet, about four feet over Dean's head. Dean counted to four and raised the gun again.

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Another pause. The man resumed firing a moment later, not as surprised this time. But, then, he didn't need to be. Dean pictured the layout of the room in his head. The guy was only about twenty feet from the closet, hidden behind an overturned table. The closest door leading to the hall was to Dean's right, about four strides away, and the outer wall of the building with its large windows was about two long strides to Dean's left. Most importantly, there was a long sofa just outside the closet door, a quick slide away.

Dean wished he had ducked behind that instead of going into the closet, but if he had a nickel for every—-

"What the fu—?!" the gunman's voice cried. Sam was there. Dean kicked the door open and dove back out into the room, angling toward the overstuffed sofa. As he slid to a stop and came back up, intent on drawing the club member's fire again, he happened to notice that the man was staring out the window, dumbstruck. Dean followed the stare.

Jesus Christ.

Sam's six-foot-four boxer- and t-shirt-clad bulk was edging determinedly along the ledge outside, moving inexorably toward the one open window, which just happened to be next to the gunman. Dean had to blink to make sure he was seeing correctly. He tried to remember what the exterior of the building looked like…that ledge couldn't be more than seven or eight inches wide. If that.

Nevertheless, Sam was moving like fucking Spider-man, slinking down the line of windows with totally unexpected grace.

Dean looked back at his opponent, noting with alarm that the gun was swinging in Sam's direction. He quickly lowered his own and fired three rounds into the wood of the overturned table, causing the man to duck and focus on him again. Dean dove as another volley of bullets whizzed by, planting themselves in the wall behind him.

He counted to three quickly, then sprang up again, gun first.

That was as far as Dean got. Just as he leveled the weapon, a shaggy-haired missile shot through the open window. The gray-brown blur of fabric and muscle hit the gunman like a freight train, sending both men down behind the table in a storm of flailing arms and legs. Dean heard a muted "ow" from Sam. The .45 went skidding across the floor, stopping at the far wall.

Dean rose and ran around the table, ready to peel the incensed gunman off his brother, only to find Sam lying on top of the wholly unconscious man. Dean just stared at them for a moment, trying to reconcile what he'd witnessed in the past ten seconds. All that had been missing were some cartoon sound effects.

He noticed that Sam still had his phone clutched in one hand, and what looked like the note Dean had scribbled earlier was clumsily folded and sticking out of the waistband of Sam's boxers. _How the hell did he climb up with the phone in his hand?_

Sam looked up at him, eyes dilated and droopy, and gave him a tentative thumbs up, before narrowing his eyes and glancing suspiciously around the room.

"S're there s'no monkeys?"

**Phx**

Sam wasn't feeling so great anymore. Dean had sat him on the couch and told him to _Stay_ about ten times before taking off to dispatch the croucher… or monkeys. He wasn't really sure what anymore, but it seemed to be taking forever. And the drugs were starting to wear off. With that came pain and coherency and, honestly, right now Sam didn't want either.

His mind assaulted him with images of what could only be equated with a whacked-out acid trip taken in his—Sam looked down and blanched—underwear. Culminating with a Spider-man-meets-human-cannonball impersonation, and his injured back, previously so wonderfully masqueraded by drugs, was now reminding him that athletics were not what the good doctor, as cute as she was, had in mind when she'd told him to take it easy for a couple of days.

Slowly easing to the side, Sam gingerly rested against the arm of the couch and closed his eyes. He swallowed hard and wished Dean would hurry up already. Just how long did it take to hack something to bits, anyway?

He'd almost dozed off when Dean's way too cheery voice startled him. "Yo, bitch, ready to go?"

Lancing pain shot through his back. The damn drugs were wearing off way to fast, and Sam doubled over with a groan. He would have face-planted if not for his brother's quick reflexes.

"Whoa, hey, you okay?"

"Drugs," Sam managed between gritted teeth. _Dammit!_ "Got any?"

Glancing at his watch, Dean grimaced. "Oh, shit." He'd obviously realized the same thing as Sam: it was way past re-dose time. "Oh, man, Sammy—I'm sorry—"

"S'okay," Sam brushed the apology off, wishing he'd been coherent enough to take pain meds into consideration before he'd left the room, but he'd been focused on other way more important things at the time, like saving Dean, monkeys… and understanding the spoken word. And what was his fascination with monkeys, anyway? Sam shook his head slightly. Thank God he'd been wearing underwear.

"Okay, my ass," Dean grumbled as he crouched in front of Sam, his grip still firm on Sam's arms, and frowned.

"What?" Sam was hurting too much to censor the irritation out of his voice. He did notice his brother, though. Dean was covered in blood and gore, and smelled like pee. Instinctively shifting back, Sam regretted it immediately when his back spasmed. "Shit!" he hissed out between clenched teeth as he fought against his brother's restraint and tried to squirm away from the pain.

Dean's grip changed. Pulling Sam forward so that his forehead rested against his collarbone, Dean reached around Sam and started to massage the cramping muscles. His brother's calloused fingers, trained and attuned to Sam since childhood, slowly worked away the worst of the pain.

Sam finally gasped out an exhausted "Dean" and slumped against him. If he could have crawled inside his brother's skin, Sam would have, but then the strong odor of urine had him wrinkling his nose and changing his mind. Great, now he was covered in croucher gore, too. "You stink," he whispered, his voice muffled against Dean's jacket.

His brother's chuckle rumbled through Sam's body as words curled with affection tickled the side of his face. "Yeah, well, next time _you_ get to catch and kill the thing, and I'll take a nap on the nice comfy couch… Damn thing pissed on me, Sam. Did you know it could wee, with shocking accuracy, from across the room? Ten feet, dude, dead on! Forget pissing people off—its true talent is pissing on people!"

Sam closed his eyes and laughed softly. It hurt like a sonovabitch, but he couldn't help it. "S-sorry, man," he managed, "no, I did not." He ended with a groan and felt his brother's arm tighten briefly against him. Then Dean was carefully shrugging out of his jacket and wrapping it around his shoulders.

"Come on, Sam, I got the good stuff back in the room." Sam felt himself being eased to his feet.

"You better…," he wheezed as a sharp pain stabbed with every movement, "be talking…drugs."

Dean ducked down and gingerly pulled one of Sam's arms over his shoulder. "And people think you're the good one."

Sam would have glared if he hadn't had to concentrate so hard on staying upright. Dean's grip was the only thing keeping him from hitting the floor. "Hey, Dean," he mumbled as they shuffled out of the room. "Did you know… capuchin monkeys… rub themselves… with pee… to get… sex?"

Dean stopped and glared at Sam. "I don't know whether I'm terrified or impressed that you know that." When Sam slumped a bit more against him, the older hunter started walking again. "I will tell you one thing though, bro. Your obsession with monkeys is really starting to freak me out."

"Hey, Dean," Sam thought of something else. "Where's the machete?"

Dean's step faltered for a moment, then smoothed out. "The croucher ate it."

"But—"

"Hey, Sam?" the older hunter interrupted Sam before he could ask how Dean had hacked the thing to itty-bitty pieces if the creature ate the blade, and whether or not that happened before or after the thing whizzed on him.

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Shaddup."

The End


End file.
